


Sleep Deprivation Is No Excuse

by Elenothar



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Cuddling, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, insomniac Q, touch-starved Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5697379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q doesn't sleep much. Bond makes himself a nuisance in Q-Branch because he's bored. Somehow they get a relationship out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep Deprivation Is No Excuse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beginte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/gifts).



> Written for the 2015-2016 00Q Reverse Bang. The lovely art this fic is based on is by beginte - [this](http://beginte.tumblr.com/post/137427297969/00q-sharing-a-sofa-at-work-my-art-for-the-00q) is their art post. Please give them love :)
> 
> Beta credit to the awesome Milaryn!

-

It was never a secret that the new Quartermaster is a bit of a workaholic and seems to view sleep as on the same level of necessity as, say, having a pizza every day. Sure, it’d be nice for about a week, but then you’d get sick of it. Not exactly a basic necessity. It had taken 90% of the agency about week to figure out that sleep and the Quartermaster don’t get along (the other 10% had only needed a day); if their assessment wasn’t quite so accurate, Q would’ve been a tad miffed that they didn’t even consider that he might just be a very dedicated employee.

So sleep isn’t really a thing that happens to him much and that’s fine and he’s content, except that sometimes, not very often at all, it becomes a Problem. The kind of Problem that leaves him truly unable to sleep for days; it leaves him jittery and shaking and his head buzzing unpleasantly in that grey place between sleep and wakefulness. The kind of Problem where concentrating becomes a chore and this in turn affects his ability to do his job properly.

So, Problem.

He tried a couple of different medications, which either didn’t help at all or made him feel so slow and stupid for days after that it was absolutely unbearable. If he’s got one thing it’s his brain, and he isn’t going to do anything to bloody compromise it. To hell with sleep.

So the Problem persists, usually triggered by periods of extreme stress, which thankfully don’t crop up that often – even when working for MI6. The most recent one had been in the wake of Operation Skyfall, which, to be fair to him, had been a grade A disaster. But even during those periods he usually manages to lie down on the sofa and rest, if not truly sleep, for a couple of hours each night. It’s enough for him, and the sofa sees more use than it possibly had for decades.

It’s a tatty, old, blue piece of furniture, but is referred to as the ‘holy grail of Q-Branch’, and it sits right next to the brand-new, state of the art coffee machine. No one is entirely sure how it ended up in MI6’s basement, but rumour has it that Jake (desk #3, net maintenance) dumped it there when he moved into a new apartment. It is the single most comfortable item of furniture in the building, considering that the rest of the building is outfitted in the typical government building style – practical, stackable, and not designed to be comfortable enough to fall asleep on. Considering some of the meetings Q has had to sit through it seems like a sound strategy.

It’s not all fine, but it’s workable. Then James Bond comes along and does what he does best – he interferes.

-

_Observation 1:_

_James Bond moves too bloody quietly._

 

It’s some point in the early morning and Q is enjoying the peace of Q-Branch without any superfluous distractions. In fact, he’s the only one there and he’s made marvellous progress on ironing out the kinks in the code for the latest Walther refit.

One moment he’s alone, the next James Bond is standing right in his field of vision. Q is pretty certain that no one’s invented a teleportation device yet – he would _definitely_ know if someone had – which leaves zero options as to how he could’ve missed the man’s approach.

Caught off guard, Q waspishly asks, “What are you doing here?”

Bond doesn’t seem bothered by his tone.

“Engaging in a thrilling escape from boredom. Most of the building is asleep.”

Q’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Why’d you come here then?”

Bond shrugs. “A little birdie told me you’d be the most likely lunatic to still be hanging around working at” – he checks his watch – “3:25 AM.”

There’s something pointed in the last words, which is rich coming from someone who’s also awake and knocking about at the same time, so Q ignores the implication.

“What are you hoping I’ll do for you then?” Q asks because if he’s got a deadly weakness it’s definitely curiosity.

Bond’s smile is as sharp and deadly as a knife. “Provide me with a good distraction.”

“Q-Branch isn’t here for your personal entertainment, 007,” Q points out, eyebrows rising. Despite himself, he’s beginning to enjoy this.

Bond leans in closer, a tangible presence moving into Q’s personal space. “Not Q-Branch. _You_.”

Q suppresses the urge to swallow past his suddenly dry throat and retorts just a beat too late. “I’m not exactly qualified, you understand. MI6 tends to hire people who’re good at their jobs, not for being _entertaining_.”

Bond leans back again, eyes glittering. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Q drags a hand through his already messy hair. He knows it’s a tell that he should really be getting rid of, but that would probably involve cutting it and _nobody_ touches his hair. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bond’s hand twitch in an aborted movement, but when he turns to look at the agent, he’s calm and still once more, watching Q steadily.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Stay here if you want, but don’t complain if it’s as boring as you claim the rest of the building to be.”

And that is how James Bond spends a night in Q-Branch alone with the Quartermaster who mostly tries to ignore him and gets on with his coding. It would probably surprise people to hear that Bond is entirely well-behaved the whole time, but somehow Q hadn’t expected any different. Bond may be brash and loud and distracting when he needs to be, but he’s a field agent – he knows when to shut up and be quiet.

Bond disappears when the first Q-Branchers begin to trickle in and that, Q figures, is probably the end of that.

-

It wasn’t the end of that.

Two days later, Bond shows up again, this time with a bottle of beer and some snacks in tow. Q had actually got some sleep the night before, so he feels more perky than usual – though perhaps not perky enough to deal with the mystery that is Bond’s sudden fascination with Q-Branch.

Bond installs himself on the couch, and every time Q glances over he looks inappropriately solemn while crunching on a crisp and taking occasional pulls from his beer bottle. It’s odd, but not the oddest thing Q has experienced at work, so he just shrugs and gets on with it.

An hour later Bond still hasn’t moved and has run out of things to chew on (loudly). Q, despite himself because it’s not like he’s forcing Bond to stay here and be bored, takes pity on him.

“Here,” he says abruptly, and hands Bond a prototype of one of his side-projects. It’s basically a swiss knife but a lot more useful and cooler. “Take a few minutes and then tell me in order of importance how this could be useful in the field and whether you can think of any improvements.”

Bond raises a brow at him, but – miraculously – does as he’s told without comment. Q turns back to his coding and does his best not to strain his ears for the occasional hmms and little noises of parts of the pocket knife opening and closing. After a while he even succeeds and mostly forgets about Bond’s presence.

Until a hand creeps into his field of vision to deposit a piece of paper on his desk. A quick check of the clock tells him half an hour has passed and Bond is looking at him with something very much like a smile playing about his lips. Suddenly dry-mouthed, Q drops his gaze to the piece of paper and begins to read the neat bullet points. Listening to HR one might get the impression that James Bond is entirely incapable of dealing with any kind of paperwork – turns out they’re wrong. Bond has given him an itemised list of ‘good things’, rated by importance and destruction capability (and he’s got quite… creative too – Q certainly never imagined his little tool could be used to disembowel people, but he’s inclined to believe Bond on this), and ‘not so good things’. The latter features a couple of legitimate concerns, such as the way it is really quite hard to get some of the instruments out of the protective casing without injuring oneself, and a rather larger number of less useful comments such as ‘could use a miniature flamethrower’.

Q blinks up at Bond. “… a flamethrower?”

Bond shrugs. “I suppose a lighter would do. You wouldn’t believe how often being able to start a fire comes in handy.”

“I think I really would,” Q mutters, but he’s smiling.

Five minutes later Bond is gone, but the paper remains on his desk. (Q may or may not have added a lighter to his design a day later.)

-

After three days of no sleep, his vision isn’t the only thing to get blurry around the edges. In Q’s defence, it isn’t entirely his fault – two missions had gone to shit in quick succession (for completely different reasons but the mess left behind is about the same); Q Branch had been tasked with doing everything possible to get the agents out alive while the other sections of MI6’s personnel attempt to deal with the political fallout of a British agent being found on North Korean soil.

Q is vaguely aware that his second-in-command, R, has been throwing him increasingly worried looks whenever she hurried by his desk, but he’s busy making sure no more video cameras capture 003’s exit.

James Bond is a lot harder to ignore.

Q missed the exact moment Bond entered Q Branch, for the agent suddenly looms over his desk, larger than life and impossible to disregard. Q is proud to say that he puts up a valiant effort, and is only defeated by Bond forcibly taking his mouse out of Q’s slightly shaky hand.

“Q, you need to take a break,” Bond says evenly, command thrumming beneath every syllable, a low whispering of _do what I say_. Q would dearly like to know how he _does_ it – they’re all equipped with the same basic anatomy for crying out loud, and yet James Bond can make a few words sound like _that_. Deep and dark and entirely impossible to resist.

“This is important,” he rallies after a long moment, but it sounds somewhat feeble even to himself.

Bond smiles that small, half-amused half-smug smile that usually frustrates Q to no end (and, incidentally, makes him want to jump Bond in the worst way), and says, “Exactly. You need to be fully conscious for this and you’re all but asleep on your feet. R can take over for a while.”

R – clearly in on this coup – nods at him from across the room and mouths something that might be ‘fucking sleep’, or possibly ‘fun sheep’. Maybe Q _is_ more tired than he thought. His defences crumbling, Q lets himself be manhandled towards the sofa, only muzzily alert to the feel of Bond’s too warm hands on his arms.

The last thing he remembers is a fluffy blanket appearing out of nowhere and Bond murmuring, “Sleep well, Quartermaster.”

He certainly doesn’t remember the barest brush of a kiss to the crown of his head, nor a fleeting touch tucking the blanket closer to his body. Nor the quiet rustling of cloth as James Bond, one of the deadliest people on the planet, settles himself down in a nearby chair to watch over him.

-

_Interlude: Eve_

 

Seven hours after Bond had gone down to Q-Branch to badger a certain recalcitrant workaholic into getting some sleep – preferably before actually collapsing – Eve finds him in the 2nd floor breakroom. An unusual sight to be sure, as Bond tends to avoid mingling with the plebs.

“Have you finally relieved yourself of watchdog duties, Bond?” she comments, making a beeline for the coffee maker at the rear of the room. Come to think of it, the coffee maker is probably the reason for Bond’s presence – it’s something of an open secret that this breakroom hosts the only half-way decent one save for M’s personal one and Q’s nefarious contraption that no one really knew how to work.

He raises an eyebrow, sipping from a steaming mug. “I didn’t realise I had assumed them in the first place, Miss Moneypenny.”

There’s something tired and strained about his expression, the way he holds himself. James Bond is far too consummate an actor even when off-duty for it to be obvious, but at this point she knows him better than most. Impulsively, she offers, “Eve.”

His lip tips up in a wry half-smile, waiting for her to elaborate.

“I killed you, then saved your life, and now we occasionally get pints and complain about our work hours when we’re not listening to Tanner complain about the state of the free world.”

Bond’s lip twitches. “I’ve never complained about my work hours.”

“Not everyone is a workaholic like you, 007.”

He only shrugs in acknowledgement. That boat has sailed, after all, and at this stage denial would get him exactly nowhere.

“As your friend,” she speaks up again, putting ever so slight an emphasis on the last word, “I feel honour-bound to ask: what is going on with you and Q?”

Bond snorts. “Are all ‘friends’ so nosy?”

“It comes with the job description.” She smiles, all teeth. “So, fess up. Are you doing the beast with two backs with Q or do you just want to be doing it?”

When Bond replies, he sounds entirely convincing. “I don’t want to have sex with Q.” His lips curl up, a far cry from his customary smirk. “I want _Q_ to have sex with _me_.”

“You do realise that only makes sense in your head right?” Eve mutters.

He snorts. “And yet you know exactly what I mean.”

She shudders theatrically. “Means it’s time to quit and move to the seaside. I can’t be spending my days understanding the way you of all people think.”

“I’ll take that as the compliment you surely intended it to be,” Bond murmurs, looking pleased. “And please don’t resign, M already looks like he’s close to a heart-attack every time I see him.”

“Apply to MI6 they said. There’ll be brilliant minds there, they said. You won’t waste your time, they said. And then it turns out nothing runs without you.”

“Well, not everyone can be as competent as you, Eve.” His gaze sharpens again. “Anything else you wish to tell me?”

She hesitates, aware that – camaraderie from nearly having killed each other or not – she’s treading on thin ground.

“Just be careful, yeah? Q is not the only one who could be hurt by this.”

It’s extremely satisfying to take a man like James Bond by surprise – he covers it expertly, of course, but she saw the glimmer of puzzlement followed by sudden understanding in his eyes before they shuttered again, like a dozing lion’s.

When he slowly nods, that’s all the confirmation she needs.

-

_Observation 2:_

_Bond is acting odd._

 

It takes another week for Q to confirm beyond a doubt that 007 is acting odd. Considering some of the things the man does on a regular basis, that’s saying something – sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly crabby, Q thinks that the only job description Double-0’s have ever received must’ve been ‘do odd and risky things in the field that make sense to no one but yourself and then watch everyone at HQ scramble to deal with the fallout’.

Case in point, Bond’s latest mission, which was supposed to just be a day of reconnaissance in Bern –who is stupid enough to assign 007 a strictly _reconnaissance_ mission anyway, that’s what Q wants to know – ended with no fewer than three explosions and now the Swiss government is knocking on their doors. Thank God that Q doesn’t have to deal with that kind of shit.

But back to Bond acting odd. Him blowing up stuff in foreign countries isn’t exactly odd behaviour – in fact it’s normal for him – but Bond has taken to spending a lot of time in Q-Branch. At this point, most of his staff have stopped being terrified of him, and a few even greet the man when he walks in, which is entirely unprecedented. And moreover he is even _helpful_. Q is so used to field agents running off with his beautiful ( _expensive_ ) tech and bringing it back to him in pieces – because let’s face it, Bond is definitely not an abnormality there – that a field agent making himself useful in his lab without orders from up high is something of a novelty. So far Bond has stress-tested various prototypes (usually returning them damaged somehow, no matter how impossible it’s supposed to be to dent titanium alloys), spent a lot of time shooting gun prototypes and actually giving helpful pointers about balance and weight, and brought food.

That last one is the one that really gets Q. Who even brings in enough food to feed a whole department of ravenous nerds who sometimes forget to feed themselves and doesn’t even seem to mind when the food disappears within minutes without leaving a crumb for Bond himself? Not to mention the sidelong looks he keeps giving Q, as if he’s some kind of stray that needs to be fattened up. He’s not that thin, gods dammit! On the other hand the food is good, and more importantly it’s free. If there’s one habit that’s carried over from his uni days is to never sneer at free food. At first the pattern seems random, but soon Q realises that the number of times Bond brings food is linearly linked to how stressed Q looks. It’s a surprisingly warming realisation.

Ever so slowly, he becomes not only used to Bond’s company, but starts _enjoying_ it.

(Perhaps that’s exactly what Bond intends, but Q is tired and his brain hurts from having to deal with too many people in the course of a day, and somehow he can’t quite bring himself to worry about it.)

-

_Observation 3:_

_Life is not the movies. (Bloody hell.)_

 

He wants to say the first time he touches James Bond is electric, like puzzle-pieces clicking into place, but truthfully it’s neither of those things.

James tenses under his fingertips, muscles going taught in a way that have made lesser men turn tail and run as he reveals the predator lurking beneath his impeccable suit and skin.

Lesser men aren’t as stubborn as Q. He leaves his hand there, resting lightly on James’ arm, not a threat, barely even a weight, but a tangible presence, and bit by bit the other man relaxes. The only thing to be heard in the silence of Q-Branch, abandoned at this late hour, is their breathing and the soft hum of electronics all around, and Q isn’t tempted to talk. It’s not a moment for words. He sees the lines soothe on James’ face and suddenly he can’t help but wonder when the last time that James Bond had been touched outside a mission had been outside of sex – touch for the simple sake of touch. Intimate but not demanding more. The thought makes him tingle and sad all at once.

A motion that originally had only been intended to thank James for the steaming mug of tea, thoughtless in the way that only someone already tactile can be, suddenly becomes more. It’s easy enough to continue working on his tablet, balanced on the worn arm rest, with only one hand. He acts as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening because he knows James will prefer it that way. And even though James has relaxed from the first tension-filled seconds, there is still an unnatural kind of stillness to him, as if he expects Q to move away as soon as he even so much as twitches.

Well, there is only one way to prove him wrong.

They sit like that for an hour and a half. When one of them moves, it’s James not Q. Admittedly, some of the thanks for that can be ascribed to his tablet, considering he’d have got terribly bored before then if not for the mental distraction, but still it’s a result. As is the way James looks almost reluctant when he finally gets to his feet. He looks down at Q for a long moment, face unreadable.

“Quartermaster.”

Q gazes back evenly, almost tempted to look for a sumptuous Turner painting behind James. “Bond.”

He watches James stride out of Q branch, the line of his shoulders that little bit more relaxed and smiles to himself.

-

Q starts touching James _all_ the time. Just small touches – a brush of his fingers along James’ sleeve, a pat on the shoulder, a nudge of his elbow. Occasionally it occurs to him that he might be courting disaster because James doesn’t just let people _do_ that kind of thing, but the other man never once complains or pulls away. He doesn’t initiate contact either, though, and Q finds himself wondering what it would take to make him feel safe enough in this… whatever it is they’re doing. He would worry that James is only suffering through the entire thing silently and doesn’t, actually, _want_ his personal space invaded, if he wasn’t quite sure that the other man is quite capable of a) saying so and b) breaking Q’s face if he felt uncomfortable or threatened.

After a few hours of intense thought, while absent-mindedly designing a lightsabre hilt that of course, (bugger physics anyway) would never actually work but would look pretty at least, Q decides to just keep going as he is. He figures that if James gets used enough to Q being handsy around him, some of his self-control will eventually give.

It doesn’t actually occur to him that they could just talk about it. To be fair to Q, James Bond is not the kind of man who one can go up to and ask ‘Hey, d’you reckon we’re in a relationship then or am I just being a tosser?’. Also, he’s never actually claimed to be an adult. Or experienced when it comes to having a relationship.

Bloody hell, they make a nice pair don’t they?

So they don’t talk about it, but it becomes a _thing_. In truth, Q is not as opposed to it as he makes it sound. James is calming in all the most unexpected ways – especially considering his penchant for explosions and general mayhem – and if it’s careful cuddling with the one of the deadliest men in the world on a couch in the middle of Q-Branch that’ll afford him some rest than Q will take it with both hands. Slowly they graduate from pointed touches to occasionally leaning against one another, and then there’s the time Q falls asleep halfway through drawing schematics of a small, portable crossbow and wakes up half-draped over James three hours later. Going by the tension in James’s muscles the man hadn’t moved the entire time. What’s even more surprising (concerning?) is that Q fell asleep in the first place. He’d never been one to just drop off in the company of someone else – in fact, he can’t remember the last time he did that.

When it happens again, Q can’t help but wonder what’s so special about James Bond that his mind just accepts him as _being there_ – a part of the surroundings, nothing to worry about and even soothing.

 

 

At first he isn’t entirely certain what James gets out of this arrangement. Despite what his file might suggest, the agent makes no move to take whatever they have to the next level, and seems entirely content to spend a good portion of his nights in Q-Branch doing absolutely nothing.

They only talk about sex once in those first few weeks, and it goes something like this:

“We should have sex some time.”

Q glances up from his laptop. “There’s no rush.”

James hums his assent, though he looks faintly puzzled. Q, at this point, has gathered that James isn’t used to people not jumping to sex immediately, and isn’t worried. He isn’t a particularly sexual person and though there’s no question he finds James infuriatingly attractive, he’d rather take his time to get there. (Be _different_ from all of James’ past and future conquests, a small voice at the back of his mind whispers, but that’s not the only reason.) Regardless, James doesn’t seem to mind much.

After all they’ll eventually get there.

(Q doesn’t know where this unshakeable belief is even coming from. As a natural-born sceptic, he’s entirely unused to the sensation.)

-

They’re cuddled up on the couch, Q sprawled all over James’ larger frame with the older agent’s hand in his hair, when James finally decides to open up. 

“I’m a weapon,” he says, out of the blue, and if it weren’t for the content of his words Q would’ve curled even closer into his body as the gentle vibrations of speech makes his heart hum. Slightly regretfully he straightens, squinting up into James’s face, watchful but not weary.

“And nothing else?”

James doesn’t blink. “The jury’s still out.”

The hand that’s still gently kneading Q’s scalp in just the way he likes it belies his words.

“I’ll take my chances. Besides, one could argue that makes this” – a lazy wave encompasses the couch and its occupants – “the safest place I could possibly be.”

James hums noncommittally, his eyes still guarded.

“James,” Q says firmly, dislodging the hand in his hair when he sits up fully to bring their heads level. “You’re the only person I’ve _ever_ managed to accidentally fall asleep on. Do you understand what that _means_?”

“That you get a bit more sleep than you used to?” James hazards.

“Well, that too, but the point is my subconscious trusts you enough to go to sleep around you when it usually takes hours to manage some sort of sleep.” Q blinks at James solemnly. “That has never happened before and whatever you say about how dangerous you are, it’s worth more to me than what little risk there’s in being intimate with you.”

James looks at him, features blank. “Is that what we’re doing? Being _intimate_?”

Q fights down the urge to blush. “You of all people should know that sex isn’t the only way of being intimate, James. Would you do this with just anyone?”

“Of course not.” The reply is swift and fierce and Q doesn’t bother restraining his pleased smile.

“So there.”

James shakes his head, something lost flickering in the depth of his eyes. “People don’t touch me without ulterior motives.”

“I’m not exactly _people_ though, am I?” Q retorts and James huffs a laugh before drawing him back into the circle of his arms.

“That you aren’t,” James murmurs, and now it’s his turn to sound pleased.

 

-

_Observation 4:_

_ He needs to stop thinking about Bond. Also, Bond is a dick, _

It’s nearly the end of the year and all the Christmas cheer is driving Q _bonkers_. You’d think that a generally serious agency like MI6 wouldn’t have employees singing Christmas carols in the breakroom or attempting to decorate anything that stood still long enough, but no. Apparently the relentless stress of their work manifests in an almost manic insistence to celebrate Christmas properly and woe to those who don’t enjoy the experience. It’s not that Q is fundamentally opposed to Christmas – what he could do without is the way people get so aggressively social around this time of year.

He shuffles into Q-Branch a week before the holiday, needing caffeine like he needs a bullet to the brain if bullets to the brain were essential to his morning wakefulness. It takes him almost a full minute before he realises that Susie is playing _Away in a Manger_ loudly from her laptop speakers. She’s wearing one of those horrid red Santa hats with a bobble on top and humming along to the music. A _Santa hat._ Q stares for a moment, then quickens his customary shuffle to his glass-walled office. He just made it in through the door when the song changes to _All I Want For Christmas Is You_ and his mind immediately flashes to James.

He manfully resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. They finally had sex two days ago – and he hasn’t seen nor heard from James since. Q wants to believe that it won’t change anything, that James won’t just move on now that he’s got Q to the point at which he usually dumps people, but he can’t deny that a small part of him is panicking very quietly and in a dignified manner. He had got _used_ to James, had got used to enjoying his presence and warmth and he doesn’t want to lose that.

By the time his last employee has waved goodbye on the way out the door, a vicious headache has taken up residence right behind Q’s eyes and he’s seriously contemplating going home at an almost reasonable time for once. He probably wouldn’t sleep much either way, but the harsh fluorescent lights down here really aren’t helping the whole ‘stabbing knives in his eyeballs’ thing.

This time it’s really not surprising that he manages to entirely miss James’ approach.

“Q.”

He looks up, refusing to jump at the sudden voice by virtue of hard-headedness and delayed reflexes.

“James.” He can’t help but sound frosty and on second thought he doesn’t want to sound more inviting anyway. James is the one who’d just disappeared without so much of a word. At this stage, Q thinks he’s entitled to a bit of a strop.

James sighs, almost inaudibly, a rueful tilt to his lips. “I’m sorry.”

Q squints at him. “Did that hurt to say?”

“ _Q_.”

“ _James_.”

James sighs again and Q crosses his arms over his chest. “I assume you have an explanation?”

“I wanted to be sure,” James says quietly.

Q gives him his best attempt at an intimidating glare. “Could’ve used a less dickish way of figuring it out.”

Surprisingly, James does look regretful, at least a little bit, his shoulders moving in an aborted shrug. “You know me, Q.”

“Yes, I do,” Q says evenly. “Which is why I’m not willing to give this up without a fight.”

James smiles at that. “I did say I _wanted_ to be sure. I am now.”

“No more avoidance?”

James nods, the kind of steely glint in his eyes that he usually gets just before shipping out on a mission. “No more avoidance.”

If Q had needed to be convinced, the kiss that follows would probably have done it.

-

_Observation 5:_

_He can’t stop thinking about Bond._

James has been on assignment for five weeks now and Q is getting restless because he’s been dark for the latter two. Everyone keeps saying things like _he’ll be fine_ and _he’s gone dark for longer before_ and _nothing can kill 007_ , but by now the words only leave behind an ashen taste, especially given how blatantly false that last assertion is. James Bond is mortal, Q has seen and heard him nearly die too many times to doubt it. Besides any such comments could only be reassuring in the first place if the people making them weren’t trying to convince themselves first and foremost.

Oh, Q has complete faith in James of course, and believes that he’ll find a way back as long as it’s even remotely in his power, but even such faith grows sour the more the days pass.

It’s when he finds himself staring at the tattered couch down in Q Branch morosely that he realises he’s well and truly in trouble. _Gods what has that man done to him?_ He used to be fine on his own, alone, needing nobody and now here he is looking mournfully at an ugly piece of furniture like a lovelorn puppy. The whole thing is so pathetic he wants nothing more than to bash his head against the table for a few minutes until his sanity returns

People are even starting to give him pitying looks. Godsdammit.

Two days into his latest bout of insomnia he realises just how soft he’d let himself get. He’s so used to James easing his rest that getting sleep without him is a daunting prospect. There’s also the added added stress of not knowing whether he’s alive, dead, or dying further making it an impossible one. Q tries very hard not to wonder what he’ll do if James never does come back.

-

Another two days later, he’s thought it through more times than he can count and is left with ‘be absolutely miserable, don’t sleep for a while and do his job still’, which is strangely comforting even when he really doesn’t want to be in that position.

The next day his computer speakers crackle to life.

“Q?”

The word is barely audible through massive amounts of white noise – and what is James using to create this signal anyway, equipment from the nineteen hundreds? – but Q would recognise James’ voice instantly in worse conditions.

With an effort he forces down all the words he wants to say and instead asks briskly, “007, what’s your status? Do you require assistance?”

“ – successful – ran into – trouble – extraction.”

The signal keeps fading in and out, but Q gets the gist of it. “Where are you?”

By some miracle, the coordinates James gives him are intelligible. A few quick taps and a flick of his wrist and the information is forwarded to mission control. A moment later the ‘received’ flag pops up.

“Pick-up is on its way, 007. Will they be going in hot?”

A muffled percussion that sounds very much like gun fire is enough of an answer. The sound cuts off and James’ voice is back. “I’ll be there in two days.”

“You better be,” Q mumbles to himself, but apparently loud enough for James to hear as something very much like a laugh reaches Q’s ears.

James cuts off and in the silence of Q-Branch, Q can finally breathe again.

True to his word, James is back two days later and his first action back on British soil consists of dragging a tired Q back to his flat and all but sitting on him in the bed while he falls into blessed, undisturbed sleep.

-

_Observation 6:_

_All right, so maybe he doesn’t need to stop thinking about Bond._

It’s somewhat embarrassing how long it takes him to realise that they’re coming up on their one year anniversary. In his defence, it’s not exactly something that’s come up in his life before and the minutiae of day to day life aren’t where his strengths lie on the best of days. Though perhaps he shouldn’t file his and James’ managing not to implode, explode, or otherwise destroy their attempt at a relationship for a whole year under ‘minutiae’.

But back to the problem: come up with a gift or something to do on their anniversary in the next – he checks his watch – ten hours. He just bets James has some amazing thing planned. Glumly he considers just telling James that he’d forgotten, but he’d definitely never live _that_ down.

Frowning to himself, he considers his options. He could build something, some helpful gadget for James to use in the field – though M frowns on using company time for personal errands, he would probably be understanding in this case and whatever he comes up with might well be useful as a field application for others. On the other hand, he already builds things for James all the time, both for work and in his free time.

His train of thought derails when his phone pings with a new text message. Considering he’s programmed it to be on silent during work hours for anything but James’ texts – mostly because James is the only dinosaur who still uses texts and refuses to use either the interdepartmental messaging service or any of the IMs available via the internet – it isn’t hard to guess who the originator is.

                _JB: Don’t make plans for tomorrow._

While that would solve some of Q’s problems, some suspicion remains.

                _Q: Should I be worried?_

James’ reply is prompt and about as reassuring as anything that ever comes out of that man’s mouth.

                _JB: No. No point getting your knickers in a twist._  
                     I can feel you worrying about tomorrow  
                    from halfway across the building.

Q can’t help but grin.

                _Q: Last time I checked you weren’t psychic._

This time the reply comes even faster.

                _JB: Don’t need to be psychic to figure that out.  
                     Stop worrying. I’ve got everything planned._

Q is about to respond when R clears her throat somewhat pointedly from where she’s hovering with a stack of paperwork in front of his desk.

“I hate to interrupt , Q,” she says and probably even means it because R is a much nicer person than he, “but I need these signed as soon as possible or we’ll get even less funding than usual.

With a sigh that’s more directed at paperwork than the interruption, Q puts his phone aside. Work calls and he can figure out what to give to James later. And anyway, he had just been explicitly ordered not to worry about tomorrow. Sometimes he gets the sneaking suspicion that James really does know him too well, but if it nets him forgiveness before the blunder, he can’t really bring himself to mind.

They spend the entirety of their anniversary day at Q’s flat, relaxed and comfortable. It’s not what Q would’ve expected from James and all the more perfect for it.

(James laughs at the especially garish tie Q picked up for him on a whim on the way home and hands him a comparatively understated card in return. It reads ‘Get out of jail free!’ in big, happy letters and knowing James it’s probably meant rather more literally than the card manufacturers had in mind.)

 

 


End file.
